


practice makes perfect

by sapphicshakespeare



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Major Character Injury, Not Like That, Pre-Canon, adventures of iwa-chan & oikawa: pt 2, dont worry hajime walks it off, it’s just a broken wrist, oh my god oikawa is an idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:48:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28232697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphicshakespeare/pseuds/sapphicshakespeare
Summary: “We’re going to the park today, right?” Hajime scoffs at this. As if you haven’t been reminding me all week of my promise to practice with you.“Yes, dumbass. The park.”“You don’t have to be so mean about it,” Oikawa grumbles, tracing over the lines of the volleyball in his hands.[or: oikawa (accidentally) breaks iwa’s wrist]
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Kudos: 20





	practice makes perfect

**Author's Note:**

> yeah i apologize in advance for everything oikawa does in the next 2k words
> 
> loosely (and i do mean loosely, bc it’s only referenced in like one line) related to my other fic, “seven”

Hajime examines himself in the mirror. He runs his hands down his tan arms, poking at the moles that are littered across his skin. He brings his palms up to his cheeks, warming them, pinching the skin between his fingers the same way that his grandmother used to when he was a baby. He catalogues his dark brown eyes, his spiky black hair, his sharp features. He remembers these things, filing a mental image of himself, as he is in this moment, away for safekeeping.

Hajime bounces on his toes, reaching up as high as he can. His fingertips just barely graze the ceiling, and he groans. Not tall enough yet. Pretty soon, even Oikawa was going to pass him up. He just needed to eat more vegetables or something. That’s what his dad always said, at least.

Turning on his heel away from the mirror, Hajime shoves his feet into his sneakers, bending the heels as he does. He reaches down to dig them back out, fingers slipping in then out of his shoes, grinding his heel down into the shoe until he’s sure that they won’t fall off. Hajime barrels down the stairs with remarkable speed, dragging his nails across the smooth wooden railing as he does. For some reason, the sound it makes bothers his mom, but she isn’t home this morning, so Hajime does it anyway.

He skips breakfast— another thing his mother would usually chide him for, were she not away on a business trip all week— and heads straight for the front door, locking the door behind him. It’s Saturday, and he’s made plans to meet Oikawa at the park for practice. 

Lately, he thinks, tapping his toes against the sidewalk, Oikawa’s been more and more into volleyball. It was always his thing, but now it was different. Now, he was starting to get good. Better than Hajime, even. And taller, his brain reminds him. Scowling, he shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans and keeps walking.

Hajime thinks about the first time he went to Oikawa’s house. He’d rung the doorbell, and Oikawa had pulled the door open almost immediately, shushing him and telling him that from now on, he had to come in through the back door. When Hajime asked why, Oikawa shrugged noncommittally and answered that’s just the way it is. Later, in the safety of Oikawa’s bedroom, he’d explained that it was because his dad was a very busy man, and disturbing him was against the rules.

“What rules?” Hajime had pressed, leaning in closer to hear Oikawa’s answer. Oikawa gave him a funny look, as if he should know what the rules were.

“Oh, Iwa-chan,” he said, shaking his head, “You’re so uncultured.” Later, Hajime would look up the definition of “uncultured” and equal parts insulted and confused as to where Oikawa had heard such a word. As for the back door, Hajime didn’t press the issue. He just accepted it as another one of those inexplicable things about Oikawa— rules about doors, frog weddings, t-shirts, the way he seemed to understand everything and nothing all at once. And he never used the front door again.

Scraping the mud that had collected between the crevices in the soles of his shoes, Hajime knocks three short times on the back door. The door creaks open in response, knotted wood giving way to Oikawa’s smiling face, eager and ready to go.

“Good morning, Iwa-chan!” In his hands is a blue and white volleyball, the same one he’s had since… forever, Hajime thinks.

“Yeah. Good morning.”

“We’re going to the park today, right?” Hajime scoffs at this. As if you haven’t been reminding me all week of my promise to practice with you. 

“Yes, dumbass. The park.”

“You don’t have to be so mean about it,” Oikawa grumbles, tracing over the lines of the volleyball in his hands. “I’ve been looking forward to hanging out with you all week.” 

Hajime doesn’t know what to say, so he just shrugs. “Can we start walking now?” Rolling his eyes, Oikawa shoves the volleyball into his hands.

“Hold this for me. Yes, we can.”

Oikawa’s eyes light up when he sees the volleyball court. It’s a small beach court, surrounded by concrete, with a net strung up in the middle. They stop on the sidewalk, pulling off shoes and socks, leaving them in a pile far in the corner. The sand on the court is coarse and stiff, burning Hajime’s feet.

“Okay, Iwa,” Oikawa claps his hands, catching his attention, “Throw me the ball!” Hajime complies, tossing the ball towards him. He catches it, sticking his tongue out and grinning. 

“What are we doing today?” Oikawa thinks for a second, digging his bare feet into the sand. He doesn’t seem to be affected by the hot sand at all, even though Hajime thinks that his feet will probably blister.

“I think,” he pauses, humming to himself, “I think we should practice our serves. I saw this really cool video of this guy who did what’s called a jump serve and his hand hit the ball so hard that it bounced off the wall!” He runs out of air halfway through his explanation, breath coming in short gasps as he refuses to give up. “So I think we should do that because it sounds like a really important skill to hone.” Hajime nods, wondering why Oikawa sounds so much like a sports columnist.

“Sounds good. Want to go first?”

Oikawa lets out an excited yelp. “You know me so well, Iwa-chan!” He scurries over to the other side of the court, throwing the ball up into the air and slapping it with his palm. The ball flies past Hajime’s face and he jumps away, thoroughly shocked. Picking it up out of the sand, Hajime chucks the volleyball over the net.

“Sorry,” Oikawa frowns, catching the ball, “I’ll try to aim better next time.” Hajime snorts.

“You’d better.”

Oikawa tries again, and again, but his timing is always just a little bit off. By mid-afternoon, he’s both tired and frustrated. Hajime watches as he throws the ball up again, panting with effort. His feet leave the ground at just the right time, volleyball spinning through the air as it comes into contact with his hand. The ball shoots through the air straight towards Hajime’s face, and he instinctively throws his hands up. He feels his wrist crack as his hand is snapped backwards by the force of the volleyball. 

His vision blurs as he drops down to the sand, vaguely aware that he’s screaming. Oikawa is screaming, too— his name, apologies, profanities, repeating oh shit oh shit oh shit over and over and over. Hajime has never heard Oikawa curse, and under any other circumstances he would probably chew him out for it, but that doesn’t seem so important right now.

“Iwa, Iwa, Iwa, what’s wrong? Are you okay? Do I need to call your mom?” Oikawa’s eyes are wide, frantically flickering from Hajime’s hands, clutched against his chest, to his face, stark and pale. He tries to speak, but his tongue feels heavy in his mouth and his throat has gone dry. Tears trickle down his cheeks as he screws his eyes shut, trying to focus on stopping the pain in his wrist. 

“Okay, um, okay, I can… I can set the wound, right?” He searches Hajime’s eyes for any sign of confirmation, but finds nothing. “Um, you have to, I can just,” Hajime yelps when Oikawa’s fingers grip his wrist, but he doesn’t pull back. He tightens his grip, twisting the bone under Hajime’s skin. “Sorry, I’m sorry!” 

Hajime blacks out for a few minutes, pain surging through his skin. He screams and screams and screams until he can’t scream anymore, until his throat is raw, until his head hurts and his brain spins and eventually, someone calls an ambulance.

He’s loaded in the back of the vehicle but all he can think of is Oikawa, scared and alone, stuck in the rough sand of the beach court. He cries, and the nurses ask him if he wants morphine. He doesn’t know how to tell them that he isn’t crying because it hurts— he’s crying because where is Oikawa, is he okay, he looked so scared.  Eventually he finds his voice and asks one of the doctors about his friend. She seems nice enough, and her doctor clothes are the color of the walls in Oikawa’s living room. Her face is hidden behind a mask and her hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail. When she notices Hajime she walks over to him and smiles, pushing the hair away from his forehead.

“Don’t you worry about that, dear. Let’s just focus on fixing you up.” Her voice is laced with sugar, he doesn’t understand why she’s being so unhelpful. Hajime asks again.

“Where,” he rasps, voice raw and cracked from screaming, “Where is Oikawa?” The doctor looks at him again with sympathy in her eyes, patting his head lightly, and Hajime thinks people need to stop feeling bad for me and just answer my questions.

“I don’t know,” she pauses, gauging Hajime’s reaction, “I don’t know who Oikawa is, sweetheart. But we’re almost there. You’ll feel better in no time, okay?” He wants to tell her that he’s not worried about feeling better, he feels fine right now, and to ask her if anyone else knows who Oikawa is. Before Hajime can say anything, spots dance in front of his eyes and he feels himself falling, falling, falling, down into an unfamiliar darkness.

When Hajime wakes, there are pins in his wrist. He pokes at them experimentally and instantly regrets it. Pain shoots up his arm, forcing him to lay back down on the bed and count by twos until it stops hurting. Counting by twos was an old trick his mother taught him. It helps keep your mind on other matters, she’d said, sterilizing a cut on his knee. He’d laughed at it back then, but it proved very effective for him now. 

When the pain stops, Hajime sits up again, careful not to disturb his wrist. The metal end of a pin is sticking out of his cast, taunting him. He pays it no mind. Out of the corner of his eye, Hajime can see a small figure leaning up against the wall. He can’t tell who it is, because that would require twisting his body around and disturbing his wrist, so he decides to ask.

“Who’s there?” No answer. The figure shifts, slipping out of his peripheral vision. Hajime groans. “Not fair. Now I can’t see you.”

“Okay,” the figure replies. Instantly, he recognizes the voice.

“Oikawa,” he says, slowly, still trying to figure out what to say, “Why are you in the shadows?” Hajime doesn’t get a response, but Oikawa does start to creep forward into the front of the room. 

“I,” he starts, staring at the floor. He takes a deep breath, then starts again. “Sorry for, you know. Messing with your arm. The doctors…” Oikawa trails off again, and Hajime can just barely make out the tears in his eyes. “I heard them say it wouldn’t be half as bad if I hadn’t messed with the bone. Now they have to put metal things in and it might not heal right and you might not be able to spike the volleyball the same way you did before and I know you were just getting really good at that, so I’m just.” He shrugs, looking up at Hajime through red and puffy eyes.

“I’m just sorry.”

The room is silent for a moment, and Hajime can hear the air conditioner buzzing behind him. If he focuses on the low humming for too long, his head starts to hurt. He tries not to focus on it. Then the moment is gone, and his mom is next to him (has she been here this whole time?) asking him how he’s doing, if his wrist still hurts, if he’s hungry. (Fine. No. Yes, but not for hospital food). He doesn’t even notice Oikawa slip out of the room until the doorknob clicks behind him.

Oikawa visits Hajime a few more times before he gets his cast off. For weeks, he’s trapped in his bedroom, his only alleviation from the soul-crushing boredom and complete isolation showing up in the form of Oikawa, hair windswept and eyes gleaming, begging Hajime to come outside and play with him.

“I can’t,” he grumbles when Oikawa comes to call, “My mom doesn’t want me leaving the house.”

“I guess that’s my fault, right?” Hajime cups his own face with his good hand, tapping callused fingers against the smooth skin of his cheek.

“It’s alright. I don’t blame you.”

“You don’t have to blame me for it to be my fault. Plus, it’s not alright.”

Hajime doesn’t understand why Oikawa is still beating himself up over this. “Dumbass, it’s my wrist and I said it was.”

“What if you can never play volleyball again? And what if you don’t join the team in high school like I do?”

Hajime rolls his eyes. “Come on now, Shittykawa. As long as you’re playing volleyball, so am I.” He means it, he really does, and he hopes Oikawa understands that. He’s pretty sure Oikawa understands him. Does Oikawa  _ really _ understand him?

As if to answer his question, Oikawa smiles up at him, wiping at his eyes with the hem of his t-shirt. Hajime can’t tell if he’s actually been crying or if he’s just doing it for show, to make him laugh. If it’s the second one, it definitely works. His bedroom is filled with laughter for the first time in weeks.

Oikawa wipes at his eyes again, soaking up tears of laughter, chuckling as he does. “Thanks, Iwa-chan. You’re the best.”

“I know I am.” Hajime slides across his bed, clearing a spot for Oikawa. Obliging, he flops down beside him, bouncing against the mattress. 

“Iwa-chan, what would I do without you?”

Shaking his head, Hajime sighs. “I don’t know, Oikawa.”

“Yeah. I don’t know,” his friend echoes, “But I don’t ever want to find out.” Hajime agrees wholeheartedly.

**Author's Note:**

> oikawa really said “i’ve seen like three episodes of grey’s anatomy i can totally set his broken bones” ... ur honor he’s an idiot
> 
> it’s okay tho hajime loves him anyway <3
> 
> comments & kudos appreciated !!


End file.
